He feels he is becoming the wisest of men. A rebel. Sam has joined him in his search for the ultimate secret. How to start all over again, now that he has wasted his paintings on fools and buffoons who threw money at him. They have crossed waters and Sam has gone with the horses. He has brought him to a blacksmith. But first of all he laid down his head on the anvil. Begged the smith to reshape it with the glowing heat of his brain. Hammer on its turmoil until chaos has a shape at last.
Sam is waiting at the stables. His hand on the soft nostrils of the horses until the blacksmith comes and brings him over to the anvil. Sits and puts his feet in his pardoned lap. Tender skinned hooves to be gently shoed for every type of ground. You little Jew man, you never know which way you will have to go. Just joking, all that is gone now, we know that much out here. You are all rich now, what with your own country and all that. And horses to ride. It used to be donkeys for you lot. Not any more. Not any more. And your father who comes from our church, now look at him. A rebel. His loud laughter echoed the thunder of the galloping herds. Nothing is evil in nature, neither his innocent laugh nor their senseless speed. Only his father. His father will not knock at the door anymore or read from the books. He will read from them himself and make the commentaries come to life. There are shelves in his room filled with games from the Torah and the Kabbalah. Don’t smash the puzzle, sort it out. Even if it takes him a lifetime. What he feels he must use for a higher purpose. Like painting.
He is not to miss the mother who raised him. Look, there she is. You can see her from the window of your new room. A dapple-grey creature will talk to you. And make you forget, running against your memory. Racing, if necessary. This is what you always wanted, to compete with time on horseback. To rest with your favourite books in your own room. To walk with classmates and be equal. Your father is good.
We had your bum branded with the symbol of your mother’s race. We shared some firewater. Enough to bottle our last sane thoughts up and keep them for posterity. He must teach him the significance of the universe now that he wears the rebbe’s robe. The beard that hides the smile. The side locks that he hides when he pays for his son’s exquisite boarding school. It feels right to be this way. Look at the strong animals. So much freedom, Sam. Here is his chance to live. Ignore humanity. He painted his life. He did it. It brought him here, the spirit of his work. Not music. His mother will not come at bedtime. If Sam needs it he will bring him her violin in its pretty coffin. If Sam needs something, anything, he will be what he needs. The Messiah.